Indy to Daytona to Monaco

3 entries from April 2013

April 29, 2013

A lot of laughs today from the Dale Jr. weekly podcast with irritated and irate fans calling in to bitch about Jr's tenth place finish at Richmond. Actually, they're mostly angry rants about other drivers, but it's the same nonsense that's been going on for more than a decade. You can find the podcast here. (Hilarity starts about 23 min. into the show.)

During my days with the Bud team, I got my share of strange/creepy/funny voicemails and emails, but this one was so good I had to save it. Apparently, this gentleman blamed the publicist for any/all Dale Jr's woes. See what you think by clicking the icon/link below..

April 23, 2013

In case you’ve just joined our broadcast, I encourage you to click here or simply scroll down to first read part one of our story. Then come right back. We'll be here. With sandwiches. And drinks.

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Emerging from an anesthetic fog, my most vivid memory was seeing how troubled and freaked-out my family appeared to be. A good friend sent me a note today, describing the ordeal as “a parent’s worst nightmare,” and my reaction at age 13 was to be as stoic and calm as I could be for the comfort of those around me. It was as if that demeanor and approach to life was forever seared into my personality at that moment.

However, upon further reflection, I had exhibited similar traits at a much younger age while hospitalized after tumbling onto my forehead from a moving pick-up truck in the middle of a busy intersection. (The full story of that incident is an anecdote for another day.) With my head bandaged as if I were a character in the "Spirit of '76" painting, I tried to reassure my aunt, telling her "It's OK. I bounced!" So, it's most likely that my dramatic emotional turning point was merely a conscious realization rather than true change.

After surgery, my mom - easily the world’s best and most caring mom - slept in a lumpy recliner in my dreary and drab hospital room the rest of the week, while dad sold all of the motorized vehicles from the garage before I even got home. Just like my fingers: never to return.

I don’t recall significant trouble being impaired or hampered in the weeks that followed, even with the sling and the bandages, unless you count nearly setting those bandages ablaze while lighting fireworks a week or so later. (I didn't tell the family that anecdote at the time.) I struggled trying to return to competitive tennis, but I was soon going to be 14-years old, which meant getting a learner’s permit and working as a “lot boy” at my dad’s dealership. Plus, an increased interest in the ladies meant it would have been likely for me - in any scenario - to soon gravitate towards four wheels rather than two.

I began a dizzying number of visits to a variety of doctors. One doctor theorized that the padded leather glove I was wearing likely saved the rest of my hand from more severe damage, while another believed the tough-to-tear glove only drew my fingers into the sprocket at a faster rate and prevented me from pulling back. A third doctor, a rehab specialist, took a quick look and offered only one kernel of advice. “The best therapy is to do what you do normally,” he said. (Wonder how much my parents paid for that 'genius' analysis?)

Because the injury had been so grimy and greasy, I had been pumped full of an array of antibiotics to stave off infections. The grotesque result was thick and colorful scabs covering the incisions, which made the removal of the stitches nearly unbearable. I was so shaken that I blacked out during the procedure. So much for being calm and stoic.

I never experienced “phantom pain,” where an amputee senses pain in the missing limb. However, because of how the skin was folded over like a flap from underneath to the top of my middle finger, a simple touch to that area registered in my brain as still being attached to the underside of the missing digit until the nerves began to heal.

After a few months, complications set in. The doctors had initially tried to save as much of the fingers as possible. (They say 'size matters.' Or so I've heard.) But, the bone on my index finger was slightly longer than the skin that had remained to cover it, and I developed excruciating pain with the injured skin pulled taut around the bone. So, more surgery was required to shorten and “clean-up” the index finger. The surgery was scheduled for the day after Christmas so I wouldn’t miss a day of school, and also quashing any joy I would have during the holidays that year.

(My custom visor strip. Click to enlarge.)

So what are the long-term results of being digitally challenged? Other than still being painful if hit and very sensitive to cold weather (I nearly always have a pair of gloves nearby), it never slowed me down. It did remove any chance of becoming a famous guitarist or pianist, but I had never touched either instrument before or after. But, I did became a pretty damn good eight-fingered drummer, which I view as abundant recompense. With a few oddball exceptions (like trying to use nail clippers or using the front, left buttons on a Playstation controller), I’m able to do anything I choose. With full use of my thumb and outer fingers on my non-dominant hand, I can still grip and carry most things. (I do occasionally have items slip away from me, most frequently an icy glass or cup. Or my iPhone, as it tumbled into a pitcher of juice. Oh, the mess!)

Yes, I am more squeamish about certain things. Just as most men cringe and double-over in empathetic pain when they see another gent receive a direct impact to his ‘man parts,’ it’s the same for me seeing another’s bloody or catastrophic injuries. It makes my stubs ache, so no horror movies or emergency-room teledramas for me. Seeing and hearing about the horrific injuries in the Bostons has been particularly rough.

Primarily, my stubs have led to a lot of bad jokes, visual and otherwise. You have the jokes about the cheesy old TV show “8 is Enough,” or calling my audio and video work “8FingersProductions,” and naming my sports PR firm “fingerprint inc.” I also had an email address for many years that included the numeral 8, which some believed was a reference to my role with the No. 8 Budweiser team. They were wrong.

I joked a lot about it with the Bud team, resulting in some funny reactions from innocent bystanders when a crew member would needle me. “That’s so cruel!,” the unaware would say, shaking their heads. “No, he likes those jokes,” they’d reply with a chuckle. One of the Joe Gibbs crew members I worked with several years ago started calling me “Ocho!,” which I thought was superb and more succinct than the other nicknames.

I am occasionally accused by karting rivals of having an aerodynamic advantage on the steering wheel, but, at best, it’s an asymmetrical benefit and only a few ounces of weight-savings.

I usually bet on the number 8 at the roulette table, but, surprisingly, it still hits approximately once in every 38 spins. (Yet another reason I've switched to craps.)

I've never had the courage to go into a nail salon and ask for the "20-percent off" discount on a manicure.

How about the ol’ cliche of “Chicks Dig Scars.” Much as I yearned for that to be true, it hasn’t seemed to be the case. Perhaps I needed bigger, more dramatic scars. (I am unwilling to voluntarily try out that option, however.)

But, I do love a lyric from the Goo Goo Doll’s song “Name,” which says:

At age 13, within earshot of my idyllic, lakeside Kansas home, my hand was ensnared in the sprocket of the Suzuki 185cc motocross bike. (Trust me, I couldn’t replicate the freaky endo-from-hell again if I tried for 100 years.) Trapped, I could only scream bloody murder for someone to come to my rescue. It became chaos as my parents as well as aunts and uncles and cousins came scurrying up the road. My dad was able to extract my hand by removing the chain guard and left-side engine panel on the bike. The first two fingers on my left hand were mangled, hanging like ground beef by a thin strand of skin.

Hearing and seeing several accounts of victims of the Boston bombing who are lucky to be alive but are now amputees with inspiring attitudes, I was compelled to share my story of losing several of my own digits. While I absolutely do not equate my situation with the seriousness of losing a leg or a foot in a horrid attack, it has brought back a lot of images and memories. I haven’t spoken in depth about it with many people (until now I suppose), but don’t go out of my way to hide what became known as “my stubs.”

It all started at the age of three.

After attending my first super-modified dirt track race, I was hooked. (Initially for the sno-cone I would get before the feature each Friday night, but, hey! - whatever it takes when you’re three!) I loved anything that was fast and loud, an addictive affliction that continues today.

My dad owned car dealerships and, for a brief time, added a motorcycle dealership to the mix. (The first Kawasaki dealership in Kansas, BTW.) We went to see a variety of motorcycle races: from motocross to hare scrambles and flat-track ovals to the AMA Grand National bikes on the mile-oval at Sedalia, Mo. I was enthralled, and had someone to cheer for as one of our neighbors, Ken Pressgrove, moved his way up the ranks. The smooth and fast Pressgrove reached AMA’s top series, only to be killed at Louisville Downs during his rookie season. The 23-year old racer fell from his No. 14N BSA bike on the opening lap and was run over by other riders. (Click the image below for a larger view.)

Despite Pressgrove’s death and the numerous riders we knew with permanent cases of “racer’s limp” (or worse), all I knew is I wanted a mini-bike of my own. So the badgering began.

Worried for the health and welfare of their son, mom and dad were resistant. But never underestimate the dogged determination of a grade-schooler who only wants to ride fast. Finally a deal was struck: if I got all-A's on my report card for the entire second-grade year, I could earn a mini-bike.

I was so excited! But, the day it was brought home, it was raining like only a Kansas gully washer can. Undaunted, I insisted on doing a few laps in the garage. As a newbie, not yet aware of the theory of motorized power and the concept of proper braking, I screamed “Dad! Stop pushing me!” immediately before I crashed head-on into the garage wall. (Hilariously, he hadn’t actually pushed me at all.) My debut wasn’t auspicious, but it would get much better from there.

One thing my parents insisted upon was safety first. To ride the mini-bike, it was mandatory to wear a helmet, heavy boots and protective gloves. Through the years, I progressed to bigger and faster bikes, while always wearing the full complement of gear.

Which brings me to the summer of my 13th year.

With my hand now freed from the bike, I collapsed to the ground while all sorts of cacophony took place around me. Being in shock adds a shadowy, bleary filter to memories and visions, but I clearly recall a young cousin burning rubber to move a car out of the driveway so I could be driven to the hospital in our Lincoln-Continental. We lived outside of town, and it was decided it would take too long to wait for an ambulance.

I sprawled uncomfortably in the back of the car, my hand wrapped tightly by an aunt with some sort of previous medical training. Dad was driving, and mom was screaming at him the entire ride as he careened wildly down the streets of Topeka. “Slow down, you’ll kill us all!” was one urgent command from the passenger seat. As dad honked the horn frantically to get through traffic, some motorists mistook it for a friendly beep, and waved at our car while we sped around them. All I wanted was to reach the hospital and get some damn-fine pain medication.

Arriving in the emergency room, it was a bee-hive of activity as they gingerly cut off my shirt and leather gloves while the doctor examined what little was left of my digits.

“The bones are crushed and there’s very little skin that remains, so we’re going to have to amputate,” he told us.

I was still in shock and in the grips of heavy narcotics, but I was thrilled with the word amputate.

A short time before my accident, a close friend had badly broken his leg and had a scary and ornate wiry contraption surgically installed to stabilize the bone. (What the hell are those contraptions called? Anyone?) I couldn’t look at it because it appeared to be a crude medieval torture device emanating out of the skin on both sides of his lower leg. Amputation meant I wouldn’t have those scary wires sprouting out of my fingers like a spider's web. So, delirious or not, I was pleased.

The most surreal moment was having the wounds cleaned before emergency surgery. Because the injuries were very grimy and greasy from the sprocket, infection was a big concern, so they created a witches’ concoction of chemicals in a large pan. As my hand was placed inside, I could vaguely feel the tips of my former fingers floating freely and clanking off the sides of the sizeable container. It wasn't pleasant.

I was soon wheeled into the operating room, emerging forever-changed. I was now “8 Fingers.”

Thanks for enduring my travails and lengthy blathering, and check back here in the next day or so for "Part Two: The Aftermath."